


The Farmer's Daughter

by spheeris1



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F, Gen, Introspection, Love, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 21:09:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spheeris1/pseuds/spheeris1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post mid-season finale // AU-ish // Helena was asked to take the astrolabe and to remain hidden until the world was safe once more. And so she hides in a place that no one would ever expect - a farm in South Dakota. Lots of thinking, growing, and letting go soon follows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

~ ~

As far as ‘disappear-with-an-extremely-dangerous-artifact’ plans go, Helena thought this one was rather ingenious. No one would ever suspect her of being here; they might think Paris or somewhere in England, they might even search out more remote areas upon this planet – somewhere in the wilds of the jungle perhaps or buried deep within the darkness of wintery northern lands…

…But they would be wrong.

Of course, there was a downside that Helena did not consider when formulating this brilliant plan of hers.

_There is always a downside._

/

One of the more difficult parts of her prolonged incognito act is to affect that American accent that Pete once informed her of having. But Emily Lake had a leg up on Helena, so to speak; the customs and the culture of the modern-day American woman came naturally to this constructed person…

…For Helena, the transition isn’t as smooth.

Still, she muddles through and just doesn’t talk as much as she would normally.

And, honestly, the people here don’t seem to mind that much whether she is talking or not. They are more than fine with a ‘good morning’ or a ‘thank you’ from her, while saving the bulk of their conversation for those who have been here longer – trading tips on the harvest, when to can what foods, or how to fix some ancient piece of farming equipment.

Helena, in a fit of bored desperation, sneaks into the barn one night and works on the manual transmission of one of the tractors that was being complained about earlier in the day.

Next morning, when the tractor starts without the usual prerequisite clanging and chugging, Dwayne Calvert sits stunned upon the black leather seat.

“Thank God this hunk of junk decided to work again!” He exclaims and Helena allows herself a small, self-satisfied grin as she watches discreetly from around the corner of the barn doors.

 _Oh, it was no trouble at all, Mr. Calvert_ , Helena thinks as she walks back to the farmhouse with her silver pail full of eggs yet to be cleaned.

/

Where better to hide than in plain sight?

That was Helena’s thought as she left the Warehouse and, truly, no one would ever think to look for H.G. Wells on some farm within the depths of South Dakota – and no one would ever think of finding Magellan’s Astrolabe on a farm either.

Being quite adept at creating clever cover stories, Helena manages to earn her keep without too many questions being asked. The farm needs help on a regular basis, drawing on day-laborers and college students and other, more transient folk.

And while Helena is a little put-out over the fact that she is not allowed to do the ‘men’s work’ if she so chooses (which earned Mr. Calvert a very cold glare), she must concede in order to blend in better and not draw attention to herself.

Helena is playing by the rules – for now.

/

But, of course, rules get terribly dull after a while and creeping around to fix machinery in the shadows is not helping to pass all the hours that are left after her six a.m. to seven p.m. day is over.

She goes into the little town one day and purchases a notebook, feeling for the first time in over a hundred years the urge to write – though she has absolutely no idea what might come from her pen these days. But as the farm settles down for the night, with a chorus of cicadas as the only sound beyond the warm breeze as it blows through thread-bare curtains, Helena recognizes the sudden swell of peace that rolls within her body…

…and so handsome blue words fill up the pages by soft lamp light.

/


	2. II

~ ~

Helena never did have much talent at tying up loose ends when it came to her stories. The various plots would ramble around and then take detours, sentences trailing off into diagrams and hypotheses to be attempted at a later date.

Charles was better at turning rough ideas into fictional narratives; Helena was better at turning those fictions into reality.

And yet, looking at the paragraphs in front of her now, Helena senses that this world has finally remade parts of her mind once shattered; those torn places have slowly threaded together once more and the scientific slant of the printed thought has given way to the cursive drift of introspection.

She no longer writes about a future she may never see.

She writes about how she feels right now.

/

_“The past loves to haunt the rooms you try to inhabit, white whispers around the corners of your eyes, and the more you beg these specters to leave… the more they wish to stay._

_And so I welcome you into this new world, sweet shadows that only my eyes can see; and so I watch you walk around my house, tender steps upon my heart, and I do not lock my doors anymore. I throw open the windows and instead of wondering when you will go…_

_…I ask you to remain.”_

/

And Helena’s eyes quietly close, pen still held in her hand and notebook pages fluttering softly underneath her resting face.

/

To some degree, the downside is the monotony.

The day-in, day-out sort of lifestyle that accompanies such a world as this one, where everyone rises at the same time, everyone does their various tasks without deviation, and then everyone retreats to their respective corners until dawn - and then they do it all over again the next day.

Helena is used to more universe-altering endeavors with which to expend her energy upon. Helena is used to not having every move be predictable, to existing within the element of constant surprise.

And yet…

…her muscles sing with these routine maneuvers, with the repetition of pitchforks into hay or sharp-tipped shovels into dirt; her body aches as she stands in the shower but her mind is quiet in a way that it has not been for so very long and when Helena does lay down upon her single-sized bed…

…she truly sleeps.

And so, to some degree, this monotony is a bizarre blessing in disguise.

/

A few of the farmhands stand by the fence-line, booted feet propped up on the wood, and they watch as Dwayne Calvert opens up some of the stalls, letting six or seven horses out to pasture.

And Helena comes closer as a few of the horses begin to run, hooves kicking up dust as the sun starts to set and neighing to each other in some kind of conversation that no one else here cares to follow; she watches them turn and shift, manes falling into dark eyes and tails trailing behind like rippling banners…

“Are we allowed to ride any of them?” Helena asks aloud to whoever chooses to hear her question and one of the men replies with ‘If you think you can, little miss…’ and a chuckle.

_Old-fashioned indeed._

But minute after minute soon slips by and while the rest of the men slowly leave, ready for food and for cleaning a day’s worth of sweat off of their skin…

…Helena stays by the fence, chin propped up by her fist as the sky explodes into a million shades of red, yellow, and orange; as the horses canter past her, gradually calming down and turning their attention to the sweet allure of the grass below them.

/

And Helena’s eyes quietly close.

And she thinks that this moment is close to perfect.

/


	3. III

~ ~

Helena, for all of her conquests – both physical and mental - has always considered herself to be quite singular in a room full of people.

It’s been her intellect. It’s been her ingenuity. It’s been her almost insatiable need to push at the boundaries laid down before her. It’s been her want of something grander and more amazing then what ‘normal’ people are told to desire.

It’s been everything about Helena that has always set her apart from the rest of the world.

And that’s been exactly as Helena has liked it to be.

/

To some extent, the downside is the loneliness.

There is no conversation to be had on the farm. Life is about work, work is – therefore – life… and there is nothing more. Well, there is nothing more that Helena wishes to actively engage in; the male posturing that has not changed over the centuries does not appeal to her senses in the least (they flirt like children and then become rude when rebuffed) and the idle chatter of the women around the supper table does not awaken her mind at all (wickedly cruel gossip over the snap of beans into the metal pots).

Helena is now forced to keep to herself and, oddly enough, it doesn’t always sit well her.

There are moments when Helena sort-of forgets why she is on this farm and her head turns to the side and she expects to see someone sitting beside her; she expects her mouth to open and for some witty comment to fall off her tongue and for there to be laughter in response.

There are moments when Helena wants to be remembered.

There are moments when Helena wants to be found.

/

“Now, now… don’t be greedy…”

Her voice is even softer now that it is morning and she is the first one up today, feet secure upon the second rail of the fence as she offers up treats to a couple of the horses; one hand holding a bit of apple or a handful of grain while her other rubs lazy patterns underneath the forelock.

They snort and nudge her empty hand and she rolls her eyes at the two of them.

“…Always wanting more, hmm?”

A door slams in the distance and Helena looks over to find Mr. Calvert heading in her direction. As he gets closer, they exchange ‘good mornings’ and they stand in somewhat comfortable silence for several minutes before the man clears his throat.

“So, I heard you want to take one of them out?” He asks with a nod of his head towards the pasture.  
“Yes. I’d like that very much.”  
“Well, I suppose it’d be all-right…We can get you saddled up after work today. Just don’t get thrown off. I’d hate to lose a worker… and I am in no mood to get sued either.”

He grins as he says the last part, though, and so Helena smiles good-naturedly in return as she promises to take all the blame if she ends up face-first upon the ground.

/

_“To fly is not to sit upon a plush seat, surrounded by pieces of fused metal and slabs of plastic; to fly is to lean down close enough that you can feel the heat coming off of horseflesh, leather reins weaving between your fingers…_

_And was it ever this glorious all those years ago? Or did I strive too well in my efforts to misplace what such freedom feels like?_

_…I think if you were here tonight, I’d ask you to answer these questions for me…”_

/

Helena leans back in her wooden chair, pausing for endless seconds before she opens one of the drawers of this desk and reaches underneath it to find a cell-phone taped there. She stares at the phone, wanting to turn it on and knowing that she shouldn’t; wanting to press her fingertips against familiar numbers and knowing that she cannot do so.

Helena catches a glimpse of another kind of freedom as she stares at this phone; a freedom once had and then lost, a liberty once hers and then forsaken like so many others…

…but she puts the phone down again, letting it sit there silently upon her open notebook, and Helena knows just who she’d liked to turn around and find waiting for her in this overwhelmingly empty room.

/

_“…because you still know me better than anyone else, Myka…”_

/


	4. IV

~ ~

They call her ‘the horse whisperer.’

From the expressions that usually follow this title, though, Helena suspects the moniker is more of a joke than a compliment. But it makes no difference to her what anyone on this farm may say, whether behind her back or chuckling right in front of her face…

…After all, Helena has risen above far bigger foes in this long lifetime.

The others load into the truck on Friday night, shirts pressed and boots polished as they turn giddy faces towards a town right past the state line; as they wash away another working week with alcohol and with the drunken kisses that always seem to follow.

And Helena takes a deep breath, catching the scent of smooth, worn leather and of rich, red clover, and the smile grows upon her lips in leaps and bounds.

/

And so, to some extent, this loneliness isn’t like being alone at all.

/

She works and she rides and she writes.

She talks to the horses, on occasion, telling them some of her dreams and some of her worries; telling them about time-machines and about madness and about how those two things are inevitably linked.

She wakes up seconds before the dawn and she watches the sun rise over tree tops; she slides her arm over her forehead in the noon day sun, wiping down sweat before it reaches her eyes. She rests her head against the wall of her room and she watches the night overtake the day; she strips off dust-covered clothing and, once clean again, she lies down on cool, crisp sheets of white.

And Helena ponders this strange, unexpected sensation of gladness that beats in her chest; she turns this feeling over and over with metaphorical hands, examining the implications until her eyes begin to blink with slumber’s impatient pull.

And contentment continues to linger upon her fingertips even as she sleeps.

/

_“You curl into my side, warm and safe, and so the imaginings of my youth fall away as I hold you._

_You – the finest of my creations, the greatest of my inventions – tucked against my body and, were it possible, I would open up my ribs and burying you within them; I would peel back the muscles of this heart and envelop you there._

_You look up at me, eyes of brown and gold, eyes so like my own…_

_…so our great adventure begins…”_

/

The skies are gray, heavy with impending rain, and Helena pauses with pitchfork in hand to watch Mr. Calvert set loose skittish mares from the barn. Of course, they know something that the rest of them do not; of course, they keep secrets with a twitch of the ears and a flick of the tail.

Helena turns her eyes to the horizon, to the blackening clouds in the distance, and she remembers that Christina loved storms when they would roll through the streets of their city home; the swinging of lanterns in the wind, the slap of raindrops against panes of glass, and silly stories told by candlelight as thunder rumbled overhead.

But the horses whinny as they canter about in circles, nickering to anyone who will listen, and several of the men are told to get plywood out of the basement…

…and so there will be no tall-tales told today.

She helps where they will let her, hammer in one hand and nails in the other; she joins in on the symphony of tap-tap-tap as everyone rushes to prepare for a force of nature about to tear across the landscape. And of all the things that Helena has experienced – from the mundane to the unbelievable – a tornado has been absent from that list.

The wind picks up steadily, whistling through the branches with dire intent, and Helena feels a sudden spike of adrenaline pulse through her veins. Highly inappropriate, she knows, but no less true; the lure of the dangerous and of the unknown, kept quiet over the past few weeks, reemerges like an old ache and Helena must work hard to keep the glint of morbid curiosity out of her eyes.

But she, along with all the others, is bustled into the basement and so this sight is to remain unseen.

/

And the light flickers. And the conversations – mostly of past disasters – grind to a halt. And Helena hears the collective sound of everyone else holding their breath, waiting for impact, waiting for the worst to finally happen.

And Helena, as though she were made in reverse compared to the rest of humanity, exhales instead.

/

_“…and so our great adventure with one another shall never end…”_

/


	5. V

~ ~

From sun up to sun down, they are clearing limbs away from the pasture and the sound of chainsaws fill up the stillness and Helena stands back, at the very end of the day, to watch this splintered tinderbox go up in smoke.

The air smells like ashes born of elm, pine, and paper birch; a fine sheen of charcoal-black falls down upon their bowed heads, as quiet as snow…

…and Helena stands closer to the fire than is necessary, heat licking at her skin with steady swipes, and she tries to imagine the inferno that once claimed her life. She tries to recall the seconds before – before the bomb that Sykes planted tore through the Warehouse and before that bomb tore through her as well; she tries to remember a white-hot flash of pain…

…and then she tries to forget again.

/

One of the horses does not return.

It is days later when the call comes, Mr. Calvert’s face nothing more than a stoic mask as he speaks a few words into the telephone and then picks up the keys for his tractor before going out the front door.

And everyone stays silent afterwards. Everyone but Helena.

She pushes the screen door open with haste, barreling down the steps in an effort to catch up with the man. And he doesn’t turn around at the sound of her feet against the ground, but he does slow down as she reaches his side.

“I’d like to go with you.”

He sighs as he comes to a stop, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair with weariness.

“It won’t be pretty.” Mr. Calvert says, trying to explain and trying to protect with one statement of fact. But this is one truth that has never been lost on Helena; this is one reality that she knows all too well.

“Death never is, Mr. Calvert.”

/

A press of her palm to where a heartbeat should be and a wounded glance into unseeing eyes…

…and Helena has never been adept at farewells. She has turned the world inside-out over and over, just trying to keep from saying good-bye. And the further she ran from those last words, the harder it became to let go of what was already gone… the harder it became to accept things as they were…

The tractor rumbles back to life behind her and her jean-covered knees push a little more firmly into the pavement as she leans forward to glide fingers through a wiry mane… and she finds those dark strands tangled by the tempest she was safe from…

…and Helena closes her eyes because she has never been very good at farewells. But the good-byes continue to fall at her feet, gathering like dying leaves, and fate is one tide that she could never push back far enough.

“Let’s get this over with.” Mr. Calvert’s gruff voice carries out over the thrum of the engine and Helena’s hand slips away from the horse’s mane, tripping over the still-soft coat along the way, and her eyes reopen with a resolute nod of her head.

“Yes, let’s.”

/

_“It’s been a month._

_And in spite of everything, I am at home here. In spite of it all, I feel whole again._

_I still miss her terribly, my lovely Christina, but I’ve always held her fast to my heart; she has yet to leave me and I would have it no other way. I still miss my brother, the wonderfully wicked sound of his laughter and the twinkle in his eyes when he would lie… which was always… But as I ran down streets, dirty and grinning, he would be waiting to clean me up again – keeping me tidy if need be, keeping me grounded when I was so quick to fly away._

_I still miss those years of discovery, those frantic moments of ideas turning into facts before my very eyes. And sometimes, I still miss the world that was on the brink of something fantastic, something revolutionary…_

_Sometimes, I still miss the future that was supposed to be mine._

_But it has been a month and I am still alive… against all odds and despite all my previous efforts…_

_…I am still alive and I don’t want that to change anytime soon.”_

/

The second she opens the door to her room, Helena knows that something is different. And she stands there quietly in the darkness of the farmhouse, holding her breath and wishing she had something more deadly than a knife hooked to the waist of her pants.

But one must make do with what one has, so she slowly removes her hand from the door knob as she slides the fingers of her other hand to the hilt of that knife – blade a little dull due to cutting so much bailing twine but still sharp enough if used properly – and she uses the toe of her boot to tap the door the rest of the way open.

Helena remains in the hallway though, in the deeper shadows of this nighttime house, and she waits.

“There’s no need for that, Agent Wells.”

Even that recognizable voice, though, isn’t enough to make Helena step forward; she stays motionless and she forces her eyes to adjust to the lack of light and suddenly this wondrous peace is shattered – and she remembers why she is here in the first place, she remembers what is at stake if she is found.

_“Trust no one.”_

That’s what Mrs. Frederic said, implying that anyone – even those that she would lay down her life for – could be turned and twisted by the astrolabe that she now guards. And Helena supposes that this stand-off would have lasted until dawn, with her muscles coiled and ready to strike at the barest hint of movement from within her bedroom…

…but then the sweet, fresh scent of apples permeates her senses; that scent floods her system with the kind of strange comfort that only the Warehouse can provide…

…and so Helena’s hand drifts away from the knife at her side.

“Have we won the war then?” Helena asks with an audible sigh as she enters the room, shoulders finally relaxing as she turns on one of the lamps.

And Mrs. Frederic is revealed, standing calmly by the wooden desk.

“Yes… but we lost battles along the way.”

Helena pauses almost in mid-step near the edge of her bed, gaze flickering downward because she knows what that statement means. She knows that a price has been paid – and it has been a dear one indeed.

“I have asked Agent Bering to be the one to bring you back to the Warehouse. She’ll be arriving tomorrow.”

The signal is a small one, traveling from Helena’s brain directly to her lungs, and a shuddering breath flutters past her lips at the mention of Myka – and at the selfish relief that comes from knowing that Myka was not the one to be lost.

“And Agent Wells?”

Helena looks up at Mrs. Frederic and the woman draws closer to her, reaching out to briefly rest a warm hand upon Helena’s arm.

“Agent Bering needs time to heal… We all do. Make sure that she gets it.”

The hand flexes around Helena’s arm, reassuring, and Helena looks away from Mrs. Frederic’s impenetrable stare to the sure fingers that lightly grip her…

…and as the hand pulls away, as Helena looks back up…

…Mrs. Frederic is gone as mysteriously as she came.

/


	6. VI

~ ~

Beau Pritchard is looking up at Helena from the ground below, leather-gloved hands open and waiting for another bale of hay to be tossed down.   
But Helena is suddenly very distracted from this task.

And the weight of the hay is rendered unimportant as it presses against her hip and the fingers weaved so tightly underneath the strings are now forgotten as well…

…because Myka Bering is stepping out of an automobile, sunglasses on and lips held in a firm line; because Myka Bering is standing there, with spine stiff inside of such professional clothing and with hidden eyes surely scanning the surroundings – absorbing and cataloging details with ease, taking mental photographs of this unlikely artifact safe-house…

…And Helena, for just a moment, must remind her own heart to keep beating.

But it is only for a moment and soon she is moving again, throwing the bale of hay to Beau in one swift motion. And Helena watches as pieces of grass gone golden slip past the twine, as sunny strands flutter around in the air, and it is this activity that draws Myka’s attention towards the barn; first to Beau’s coughing catch and then upwards to where Helena stands aloft.

And if they barely knew one another, Helena would introduce herself in a voice calm and cool… and if they were just friends, Helena might wave pleasantly from her perch and offer a smile… but if they are the kind of people who do not know how to say good-bye to one another – in a forest deep or with fifty-six seconds of life left - then how are they supposed to know how to say hello to each other today?

_…Today, with the world once more remade; today, where winning and losing feels just the same…_

But Helena’s feet move of their own accord, jean-clad legs swinging - one at a time- to the ladder affixed at the side of the barn; her body moves of its own accord, though, brushing past Beau Pritchard’s comment of ‘Hey, we aren’t done yet!’ as if the man had not spoken at all. And Helena lifts herself up and over the fence and a flurry of dust swirls up as her boots hit the ground once again and so…

_…and so today is the day for instinct over intellect…_

Reaching out slowly, as though they were the only two people around for miles and miles, Helena takes one of Myka’s hands to hold within her own; she slides the pad of her thumb quietly over Myka’s knuckles, smiling softly at her own long-overdue audacity, and then Helena looks up into green eyes no longer kept in the shadows.

And Myka Bering is broken.

And so Helena vows to put the woman back together again.

_…today is where you and I will truly begin…_

/

“So… this is where you’ve been the whole time?”

Myka’s voice is quietly curious but Helena can hear a subtle accusation underneath the tone and the inflection of this softly-spoken question. And the other woman stands somewhat awkwardly in the middle of Helena’s bedroom, gaze going everywhere at once – the single bed with its rumpled coverlet, the bare walls, and the wooden desk with a single pen resting upon the surface – before it finally settles against Helena’s face again.

“Not for the entirely of my time away from the Warehouse. At first, I was with the Regents. It seems that Artie’s claims of my new-found nobility needed to be tested.”

Myka nods her head in weak agreement, eyes once more moving around the room as though they cannot stand to remain still. And Helena knows about this kind of restlessness, about this kind of grief-induced movement – outrun the sorrow with action, avoid the pain by retreating inward, always going and going and going because stopping means to truly see…

…Helena knows all about this sort of thing.

“And then Artie had me searching for an artifact, which I pursued for quite some time.”  
“The dagger?”  
“Yes. I was close to finding it but never quite close enough, I fear…”  
“And then you left again.”

And there it is, the very tip of and yet the very core of their relationship with one another; Helena is always leaving and Myka is always left behind. In the not-so-distant past, Myka might have been able to wrap her emotions around such blinding logic – leaving as a means of protection, leaving as a way to save what one loves from harm.

But right now, in the seconds of silence that linger between them, Helena can see that Myka Bering is tired of watching others walk away, tired of watching those she cares for just disappear into the night, tired of the loss and tired of always being asked to lose.

“I left because Mrs. Frederic requested it of me. I left so that the astrolabe would remain hidden from Artie, in an effort to protect him and to protect the Warehouse…”

Helena hears a weary gasp of laughter slip past Myka’s lips, so stark and humorless, and then watches as Myka’s wandering gaze falls to the floorboards.

“…and to protect you, Myka… to try and protect all of you.”

Myka’s eyes close, quick and tight, and Helena pushes away from the wall she has been leaning upon – wanting to reach out once more, wanting to soothe now what she, too, once ripped open, wanting to show Myka that not everything good has been forsaken in this never-ending fight.

But the air around them gets sucked in so abruptly and Myka’s stare reemerges just a bit harder than before.

“Are you packed? Are you ready to go back to the Warehouse?”

Helena stands very still, left foot just a little ahead of the right, pausing upon the precipice once more and Mrs. Frederic’s gentle command rings in her ears…

_“Agent Bering needs time to heal… We all do. Make sure that she gets it.”_

…and so Helena will do what she must, consequences be damned.

“No. Not yet.”  
“Well, unless you need my help, I’ll be waiting with the car whenever you are ready.”

Myka begins to turn on her heel but Helena holds up a staying hand, smiling as she does so.

“I’m not packed yet because I cannot leave just yet.”

Helena is still smiling even as the gears turn slowly behind Myka’s confused gaze and so she takes this opportunity to build upon this less-than-elaborate fabrication.

“As I am sure you can well gather, Myka, Mrs. Frederic just… appeared in my room last night… and, well, once I spoke to my employer here about having to leave so suddenly… Mr. Calvert was rather displeased with me. And I’d hate to leave him short-handed, especially after his willingness to let me work here when I have no real experience with farm-oriented labor.”

Myka blinks at her and then the eyebrows draw together in a somewhat perplexed manner.

“…You have to serve a two-week notice? On a farm?”

Helena is unfamiliar with the term that comes out of Myka’s mouth and she doubts she can convince Dwayne Calvert to keep on another person – another person who isn’t working for their room and board – for two more weeks… but Helena decides that she’ll figure out the details later.

“Something like that, yes.”  
“Then… why did Mrs. Frederic send me to you today?”  
“Why does Mrs. Frederic do any of the things that she does?”

Myka sighs in response and drags long fingers through curly hair in muted irritation.

“Well, I guess I can just drive back to the Warehouse and you can let me know when you are done here…”  
“Or you could just stay here with me until I am done.”

Now Myka does actually chuckle with some amount of amusement and a lovely disbelieving grin briefly graces the woman’s lips.

“Are you kidding me?”  
“Not at all.”  
“Stay here? For two weeks?”  
“Oh, it won’t be for that long, Myka. As you implied, a two-week notice on a farm is uncommon. However, Mr. Calvert deserves, at the very least, a couple more days of my help so that he has time to find another worker.”

And now there is a glint of shrewdness within that gaze; it is a sense of reluctant knowing, it is an awareness of strings being pulled by unseen hands – as they so often are – and the urge to withdraw from this scenario flashes across Myka’s face like lightning.

And so Helena must strike faster.

“H.G…. I don’t think—“  
“You’ve driven all this way, Myka…”  
“It really wasn’t that far—“  
“And it will soon be evening, so it makes sense for you to stay the night, if nothing else…”  
“But the Warehouse is—“  
“Still standing, is it not?”

Myka seems to swallow hard at that open-ended inquiry, stare once more drifting to the floor beneath their feet.

“Barely.”

And Myka almost whispers the word, almost reveals every torturous fissure right before Helena’s very eyes, but the woman clears away the sadness with an invisible swipe as she clears her throat, hands twisting against one another in a fashion that Helena recognizes from days so long ago.

“I’ll, uh… I’ll stay for tonight and then head out in the morning. Okay?”

Myka doesn’t look at Helena again, glassy green stare shifting over the grain of wooden borders or out the window to the sun slowly lowering in the sky. And Helena doesn’t like lying to Myka, even if these lies are obvious and even if those nights of real deception have long passed from Helena’s soul…

…Helena doesn’t want to lie to Myka Bering anymore.

But sometimes the truth must come in measures; sometimes the truth needs time as well.

“Okay. Just one night then.”

/


	7. VII

~ ~

_“We all want to be heroes, don’t we? To save, to rescue, to be that last-minute hand that someone can grab onto. We all want to be important, to be more than others thought we could be, to break down walls and bust open barriers…_

_…We all want to be special, do we not?”_

/

It was an awkward meal, full of questions that received half-answers and full of Helena’s Emily Lake-inspired accent echoing off the kitchen walls. But Myka wasn’t talking much, expression hidden by sips of overly-sweet tea and… well, someone had to craft the next layer of this purposeful delusion and Helena is nothing if not a genius when it comes to deception.

She’d like to do less of that in the coming years, though. Lying has begun to pull upon her like a yoke around the neck.

And it was an awkward conversation that Helena then had with Dwayne Calvert, full of suspicious looks that did not quite ‘buy’ her explanations and full of feelings of guilt – no matter how ultimately pointless – churning deep down in Helena’s stomach at the man’s begrudging acceptance of the facts as she had presented them to be.

As she slowly ascends the stairs to her room, Helena wonders if all those years of holding her tongue – about inventions that should have earned her applause, about the Warehouse and all of its mysteries, about emotions swallowed back in fits of rage and of sorrow – have left Helena unwilling to deny the truth anymore.

Because she’d like to be more honest in the coming years, too…

…She wants a life actually worth living.

/

_“I’ve always thought that I was special because of what I created, because of what I made out of metal and electricity, out of ingenuity and willpower, out of pure stubbornness and endless dedication…_

_Because there was no one quite like me, not back in those coal-dusted days of my England, and so I was a hero of a sort… wasn’t I? And my whole face was my mask._

_And so my whole life was my illusion as well._

_But now I am stripped bare and all those other lives are gone and I am not special anymore._

_I am only yours…”_

/

Myka sits on the edge of the bed in one of Helena’s spare tops, a plain white tee-shirt with a hem that falls to the hips. And Helena does her best to not let her gaze linger over the exposure of long, unclothed legs as she spreads out several quilted blankets upon the floor.

They have danced around each other in silence so far; some of the moves still come naturally and yet some of the steps have been lost along the way. And while Myka undressed in the bathroom, Helena disrobed by the window and the stars; while Myka stares silently at the top of Helena’s head, Helena thinks of a thousand things to say and is barely able to keep her lips closed.

“We can share the bed, you know…”

Helena doesn’t look up at this comment as she slides her hands over this patchwork pallet; instead, her eyes slowly shift to the right and she focuses on Myka’s feet – one foot is placed firmly onto the cool wooden surface, with not a space to be seen from heel to toe, while the other foot remains restless… lightly bouncing at the ball, so very ready to run…

“One wrong move with the two of us sharing that bed, Myka, and we’ll both be sleeping on the floor.”

The bouncing of that one foot slows down until it comes to a comfortable stop by the other one and Helena cannot help but smile as she finally turns her attention upwards and allows it to rest upon Myka’s face.

And the woman is smiling softly in return as a sliver of gentle humor reveals itself within those green eyes.

“The luxuries of a life on the run, hmm, Agent Wells?”  
“They are always a joy to behold, Agent Bering.”

And they are able to hold this connection for a moment more – a finely spun thread between them – before Myka’s eyelashes flutter, taking the woman away to the mattress or to the doorway or to anywhere other than Helena, and so the moment is gone again.

But that has been the history of their time with one another, hasn’t it?

Moments upon moments that make up less than a full year and if one were to collect every minute of their interactions – the conversations that never got finished, the promises that were never kept – would the two of them together take up even less space within the universe than anticipated?

And yet… And still… it is as though every one of those moments, every one of those minutes, and every one of those bittersweet seconds spent with Myka Bering is infinitely bigger than anything else Helena has ever known…

And so they are not a drop in the ocean, not today.

They are the sea.

/

Myka isn’t asleep.

The woman turns from left to right, right to left and then sighs in frustration once she reaches the center of the bed again. And Helena passes several hours of the nighttime with these sounds – the creaking of ancient box-springs, the rustling of sheets, and the discontentment of one so worn down that they cannot truly rest – as she stares somewhat vacantly at a blank page within her notebook.

Helena isn’t writing.

The pen is held firmly between her fingertips but it has yet to move. Really, though, Helena is not at all surprised by this current inability to transform rambling thoughts into flowing script; to be able to write, one must be able to fully concentrate. However, all of Helena’s concentration rests upon a singular point – a singular non-sleeping point – and so she might as well abandon these pieces of empty paper for some other long night.

Helena releases a sigh of her own, dropping the pen unceremoniously onto the desktop and then presses both palms over her eyes… and she listens intently as the bed-frame behind her groans, as metallic-like joints are swayed by movement… and Helena reaches out to turn off the lamp, to plunge this room and the two of them into darkness… and just as her fingers push the switch, just as the light disappears…

Myka is awake.

“I can’t sleep.”

And as far as invitations go, Helena knows that this opening is a subtle one. After all, this is an overture that had to wait for the obscurity of night to arrive before it would be delivered oh so quietly. But it may be the only one that Helena will receive and so she takes this exhausted missive into her hands – and she does not let go.

“I can tell.”

Helena’s tone is light, though, and she turns in her chair to face the direction that Myka’s voice is coming from.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to disrupt… whatever you were doing over there.”  
“You only disrupted a bit of journaling.”  
“…Are you writing again?”

A child-like lilt slips unknowingly into Myka’s question and Helena finds her own lips curving upwards, a small smile unseen in all of these shadows that surround them.

“Technically, yes… but you would be disappointed with the worlds I am chronicling in this notebook. They are neither futuristic nor fantastical.”  
“So what kind of worlds are they then?”  
“The realistic kind.”

And Helena swears that she can hear the change in Myka’s demeanor at this reply, the strange notes of emotions bending and spiraling throughout the other woman’s body – louder than any other sound could ever be… and so Helena slides away from the desk, walking quietly across the floor as this new silences lingers on. Her bare feet go from the smooth surface of the wood to the softness of her make-shift sleeping arrangement and that is the precise moment that the shade is lifted temporarily from this room; the moon escapes the clouds and its luminescent glow coats everything in a bluish-white and Helena’s eyes readjust to find Myka propped up against the headboard. The woman’s gaze is trained upon the wall opposite, vacuous but still heavy with the sheen of tears that have yet to fall and of anger that has yet to be shouted.

“Why would you want to write about reality, Helena? Hasn’t reality taken too much from you already?”

And, of course, Myka is right. For all the beauty that can be found in this existence, there is just as much pain to be had as well. And these agonies cut pathways into your life without your permission, blade so fine and so sharp and so you feel the sting long after bleeding wounds turn into scars.

You are left aching and then reality just moves on as if nothing ever happened.

But these are answers that Myka already knows and Helena isn’t here to offer up validation of what they both realize to be true about this world. Helena is – and always has been – the keeper of time; fleeting numbers strapped to her waist and falling from her fingertips… and so she is here to give Myka Bering all the hours in which to grieve, in which to rail against those things that cannot be changed… in which to break apart and to know that someone, someone who cares a great deal, will be there at the very end.

“Myka… What happened?”

Helena watches as Myka’s head tilts downward and unruly curls tumble until they partially shield the woman’s face from view.

“Didn’t Mrs. Frederic tell you?”  
“She alluded to a loss but gave me no details.”  
“Sounds about right.”

When no more words are forthcoming, Helena almost reaches out; she almost drops down to her knees and she almost pushes her hands over the bed-sheets and she almost wraps her arms around Myka’s motionless body.

“Leena’s dead. Artie killed her.”

And so the blade returns at Myka’s monotone delivery, slicing down the middle of Helena’s body and leaving nothing but a cold flare of misery in its wake.

“He’s with the Regents now and I don’t know if any of us will ever see him again… and I’m not sure if he would want to come back to the Warehouse anyway, not after all of this.”

And Helena’s hand is already at her own neck; already weaving around the braided gold string there and then she is cradling the locket within her palm. And she remembers Arthur’s face as she last saw it – the hints of sanity slipping away, features awash with fatigue – and her hold on the locket grows tighter.

“We all end up crazy, evil, or dead… That’s what the Warehouse does to anyone who gets too close it. And who knows which one of us will be next on that list… might be Pete, might be me…”  
“No, you cannot think like that—“  
“It might be you. Again.”

And now Helena does move instead of standing still; she takes hold of Myka’s hands, tugging on them until the woman is forced to look at Helena directly as she speaks.

“I’m not going anywhere, Myka. I am right here.”

And the façade cracks ever so cautiously as tears silently track down Myka’s otherwise stoic face.

“You died. You died and I didn’t know about it, didn’t remember it…”  
“But none of that is real, Myka… The use of the astrolabe reversed those events…”

And Helena watches those tears as they roll to the chin and then fall into oblivion; as they slip off to the side and down Myka’s neck, translucent sadness that only the shattered can truly see.

“But it’s all the same… Don’t you get it? It doesn’t matter if it’s with Sykes’s bomb or with a damn coin in a forest… You always do the same thing. You always decide to die and the rest of us lose you…”

And Helena isn’t breathing anymore; the air is held fast in her lungs and refuses to flow. And Helena isn’t moving anymore; her bones are now brittle and even to blink might cause her to crumble from the inside-out.

“…I lose you, Helena. I always fucking lose you…”

/

_“…and I am no longer a hero…”_

/

“…and I don’t think I can go through that kind of pain anymore.”

It is a whisper – defeated and small – that curls its way around Helena’s mind. It is a series of syllables that make no sense, as though the vowels were left out and the consonants just shoved together hastily. It is not at all what Helena wants, it is not at all what Helena has died for, would die for…

…It is not at all as it should be and so Helena cannot stand idly by as Myka Bering disappears.

Myka’s hands flex and shift, wanting to be freed from Helena’s grasp – but Helena will not let go of them. And that watery green stare flashes with annoyance, with a hint of anger, too.

“Let go.”  
“No.”  
“Helena—“

There’s a warning within Myka’s tone but it is a warning that Helena does not heed in the slightest. Instead, she jerks Myka forward, ignoring first the shock and then the resistance that soon follows this course of action. And Helena forces Myka’s right hand upwards until it is pressed firmly against Helena’s chest – right over her heart.

“What do you feel?”  
“Stop this, okay? Whatever the hell—“  
“Tell me what you feel, Myka. Tell me.”

And Myka’s body seems to tremble and the air that escapes the woman’s mouth comes out in a stifled sob.

“…Your heart. I feel your heart beating.”  
“Because I am alive. I am here, Myka, and I am not going away. I am not going to leave you again.”  
“…Helena, I… I…“

They are closer to one another now and the harder that Helena presses Myka’s palm to her chest, the harder that Helena’s heart beats in return.

“I told you once to not walk away from your truth.”

The words are soft, barely skimming the surface of Myka’s cheek, and Helena’s heart is now a drum and Myka’s eyelids flutter and shut and slowly open again.

“Don’t walk away from me.”

And it is a command. And it is a plea. And it is a kiss landing upon Myka’s waiting lips.

/

_“…but I can still save you, Myka… as you have so often saved me.”_

/


	8. VIII

~ ~

Beginnings and endings – they stand out as the middle recedes from view – and Helena’s whole body is tattooed with starts and stops; the birth of her child and the loss of her child, that first step into the Warehouse and that last look of the Warehouse before the bronze overtook her senses. And while the intensity shall never be the same as when these moments occurred, the details have yet to soften over time.

It is a sharp cry ringing in Helena’s ears as something small and precious is placed into her arms; it is a lifeless, pale hand tightly clutched and the sound of someone screaming. It is the hint of apples in the air and Caturanga’s mischievous smile; it is the grim expression of disappointment and then endless darkness.

These memories do not fade; they hurt if prodded too often and they cause joy if turned towards the proper sort of light. But they are static nonetheless – they are the past and so shall they ever be.

Myka Bering is a series of images, each one slightly different from the last, and Helena uses her thumb to rapidly flip the pages; to watch these photographs come to life before her very eyes – and with every encounter, a new snapshot is revealed…

It is the swell of admiration with hands tied up and it is the reluctant attraction as the sky skips past their eyes; it is the shock of betrayal as the world heaves another dusty sigh and it is forgiveness shadowed always by what could have been. It is Myka’s fingers wrapped around Helena’s throat in a rush of anger and it is Myka’s relieved smile when Helena comes around the corner; it is forever solving puzzles but never quite saving the day.

And so this is the past, the present and the future…

This is everything.

And right now, Helena’s thumb is poised over the next page as another impression of Myka beings to unfold.

/

_“I want you.”_

/

Another time and this would have been smoother. There would have been planning involved; there would have been a seduction – eyes meeting, easy and confident consent, and a room of their own. And maybe there would have been hesitation; maybe, just as their lips met, there would be questions… Is this the right thing to do? Have our issues been laid to rest? Do we trust one another enough for such things to finally occur?

Another time and it probably would not have happened at all.

Myka’s lips are like touchpaper, though, and flames of blue ripple out along the woman’s skin – but that is a moment of poetic license, of course, because what Helena catches sight of is simply desire. Pent-up and stored and now it is lit; now it is ready to consume the one so fool-hardy and so brave to get this close.

The hand over Helena’s heart slides up until the palm finds the back of Helena’s neck and each finger seems to spell out a special code upon the skin – one tap and Helena’s head tilts to the left, one minute stab of a nail and Helena’s lips part, all five grip relentlessly and Helena’s tongue slides into Myka’s mouth. The kissing is frantic, bordering on sloppy, but – for now – that is the extent of their movement. One of Helena’s hands still holds onto Myka’s other hand, frozen in place, and the hand on Helena’s neck only clenches in reactionary spasms now.

However, they are no longer waiting for an ‘if’… just a ‘when’…

And when Myka’s tongue rolls over her own, Helena’s hand abandons its post about Myka’s wrist and winds its way into the other woman’s hair. And Helena can feel the strong pull of fingers fisted into the material of her sleeping shirt, fabric taut against her back as Myka endeavors to bring their bodies into full contact upon this bed.

_This bed._

And with a sudden gasp that is part desperate need of air and part wondrous ecstasy, Helena doesn’t say that they should slow things down and she doesn’t say that this might not be the best way to reconcile with one another; she doesn’t bring up the sorrow that is still happening all around them and how this might just be a temporary solution to a more permanent problem…

“Not on the bed.”

And Myka does not balk nor does the woman pause in her efforts to have Helena closer. Myka does, however, hear the words being said and lifts herself from the bed in a one quick, fluid motion; lips crash and lock once more as they stumble into each other, feet accidentally atop the other and knees knocking even as thighs press together so deliciously and it is within this increasing passion that they find themselves falling to the floor.

/

_“That’s what I should have been saying all along.”_

/

Somewhere between legs parting in anticipation and the feeling of muscles shifting underneath eager palms, they both realize that they must be quiet in this sleeping farmhouse. And so they inhale trembling moans and they exhale with eyes screwed shut, they sink teeth into pliable flesh as they shake and shudder against one another.

They come undone in exquisite silence.

Helena unabashedly stares at the path her own touch creates upon Myka’s body – slowly up the leg until curving towards the abdomen; a tender trail that she follows with her lips, all open-mouth kisses laid to rest on heated skin, and Helena hums low in her throat at the sensation of Myka’s hips lifting to meet her half-way during this gradual descent.

But it is the sight of Myka’s fingers attempting to dig into the wooden floor, it is the ceaseless quivering of ‘almost-there’ as Myka pushes herself repeatedly against Helena’s studious tongue, it is the sound of a single breath that manages to escape the stillness and echoes around the room until it settles deep inside of Helena’s soul…

…It is all of these things that cause Helena to orgasm, to suddenly thrust her lower body upon the floor in search of finalizing friction, to stifle a cry of unending pleasure within the slick warmth of Myka’s sweet release…

/

_“I need you… and I should have told you that sooner…”_

/

And Helena rises up and over Myka’s trembling body, placing sure lips to the woman’s forehead like benediction, and Helena wipes away Myka’s tears with nimble fingers; she gathers Myka up as though the woman were so very small, with one arm around the shoulders and the other arm draped possessively along the back. And everything that Helena should have said falls from her mouth now in whispers, in hushed conference, as Myka weeps for all that has been lost and all that shall be found.

/

_“…Let me show you now, though…_

_Let me show you the myriad of ways in which I love you.”_

/


	9. IX

~ ~

Helena’s eyes slowly open and the lattice-like patterns of the ceiling greet her. And her arms lay empty, one curled about her stomach and the other stretched out to the right – where someone should be, where someone once was – and Helena’s head turns to follow the pale road from elbow to wrist to fingertips. And she blinks once or twice, pushing away slumber with each brush of eyelashes, and she sighs tiredly.

This isn’t the first time that Helena has been left alone the morning after. Although admittedly, most times, Helena was the one doing the leaving as dawn would crack the dark sky; never one to be caught up in the web of lust for too long, never one to be trapped by the notion that sex equals love or that sex equals anything at all beyond bodies moving.

But while sleep is easy to eradicate from her mind, there are reminders of other nightly escapes present within Helena’s body; there is a stiff back from curves trying to rest flat upon a hard-wood floor, there is soreness deep inside of muscles she has not used in so very long, there is a tender ache beneath the bones of her ribcage…

…and so sex with Myka Bering means so much more.

And Helena sighs again as weary limbs push against the floor, as she rises up to look around this bedroom for any sign that Myka was ever really here at all. And she draws closer to the window, disliking the knot of trepidation that seems to grow with each step she takes; with each step that could be carrying her to the sight of an automobile long gone from Dwayne Calvert’s driveway.

And there’s that fragile feeling again, swirling around Helena’s chest until it threatens to pull her completely under; until it becomes countless eddies of emotion and Helena might as well be drowning in them.

Helena’s head falls lightly against the window-pane, forehead firm against the cool, morning glass.

And Myka’s car is gone.

/

_“It was in a moment when no one else was around, long after your friends had fallen asleep, that I wondered what it would be like to love someone like you… Someone who still believed in justice above all things, someone who still fought for the innocent and the downtrodden, someone who looked at the world in much the way I used to…_

_And I think I caught your eye as it flitted from page to page._

_And I think you wondered what it would be like to love someone like me, too.”_

/

If she were to walk the distance between this farm and the Warehouse, it would probably take Helena a day or two to reach her destination. If she were to take off in one of Dwayne Calvert’s trucks, then it would just be a couple of hours from the grassy fields of Dupree to the outskirts of Univille.

And if she were to give chase now, to fling her make-shift life into a paper bag and run out the door, then she would catch up to Myka Bering just as the woman steps back into the Warehouse. If she were to leave now, to repeat the words neither of them could utter in the days before, it would be death and despair that Helena’s good intentions would have to contend with…

…and her words would lose that fight, as words so often do…

And the others on this farm are just waking up, filling their cups with black coffee and making idle conversation as the day begins anew. And Helena is already dressed, standing in the quiet driveway and searching the dirt below for tire-tracks left behind; for the kick of rubber against loose rocks and for the outline of a hasty retreat.

And so the soft places upon the plains of Helena’s heart continue to bruise as the sun fills up the sky.

/

_“…I think we’ve been wondering about this love of ours for a very long time now… don’t you?”_

/

Helena works hard, moving from one dust-covered task to another, and she ignores the curious looks that follow her around; she ignores the questions that linger on Mr. Calvert’s face – questions he should have asked the night before – because what answers could she possibly give the man?

The truth is always so complicated, after all. Lies, in spite of the trouble they cultivate, are easier to digest today.

And Helena knows that honesty – the pure and perfect kind – was left to languish upon her bedroom floor; honesty left with Myka Bering and whatever remains of that certainty now resides somewhere on the palms of Helena’s hands, forever embedded within the lines found there before running down into her veins with painful clarity…

And so she works hard – shovel to the ground, hands full of hay – and when noon rolls around, she keeps on moving while the rest of the workers pause for a midday meal; she doesn’t stop for a drink of water or to feel the breeze flutter against her sweat-coated skin…

…Helena pushes herself until she can pretend to forget the unforgettable…

…Just like she has always done…

/

_“…And I think this love of ours is inevitable… I think this love of ours is dangerous and beautiful…_

_I think this love of ours is the future I was so desperate to find and…”_

/

Myka’s words will not leave her alone, though.

_“…I always fucking lose you.”_

And the words continue to bounce around Helena’s head, continue to weigh heavily upon her shoulders; the words slide into her muscles like knives, cutting so very deeply, and Helena finds her body dropping down hard to the loft floorboards beneath her – denim-covered bone cracking against worn-down wood.

And Helena shatters in the shadows of this barn, futile tears suddenly rolling down her the length of her face.

/

_“…and I cannot lose you now, Myka… but how can I ever expect you to stay?”_

/


	10. X

~ ~

They weave in, they weave out, and they circle back around again. And when his head veers to the right, so the rest of him goes – and she leans into the movement, fingers threaded loosely through the reins. And she closes her eyes as the direction changes again, a sightless buoy upon this living, breathing wave…

…but no, not really, because Helena sees everything today.

/

_“I never had the chance to teach you how to ride._

_I ran out of time, didn’t I? And I was always darting to and fro, always seeking out something bigger than what England could offer, always a kiss to the top of your head and a promise…_

_…A promise to tell you more stories, a promise to show you the moon and the stars, a promise to make you my world…_

_…once I made the world better than it was, once I made the world worthy of you._

_But I ran out of time, didn’t I?_

_And though I invented my glorious, terrible machine, I could never get back what I had already thrown so carelessly away. I could arrive at the very moment of your death, I could seek vengeance and then mete it out with cold satisfaction, I could lose my mind a million times over…_

_But I lost you long before your life was taken, didn’t I?_

/

And her body lowers just a bit as she flexes her thighs and her heels dig into the horse’s side – quick but firm – and so they take off in a flurry of dust. Facing the sun with its late-afternoon light burning through the tree-tops, they are two shadows made one, and she lets go of the reins as he goes faster…

Palms sliding against the soft neck, mane fluttering back to brush against her skin, and she can almost feel the heartache being left behind…

…Almost, but not quite.

/

_“…Oh Christina… I always do the same damn thing…”_

/

And they weave in, they weave out, and they circle back around again… and again… and again…

/

By the time Helena returns to the barn, the corners of the sky are being filled up with shades of purple and swatches of blue; the day has slipped away from her grasp, minute after minute tumbling down from the strands of her hair, but there is no contentment to be found as she slides away from the saddle and back to the ground below.

There is a sense of exhaustion, though.

There is a sense of every single one of her years upon this earth finally catching up to her.

There is a sense of forever finding the answers but always seconds too late to ever matter – with Christina, with Myka… even with herself…

…Always a step behind, always after the fact, and always after the damage has been done.

And Helena – for a moment - wonders what good is this newfound peace-of-mind to her now? What good are these unexpected hours of reflection and of realization when she cannot ever share the end results with those that mean the most to her?

…What good is it to know the truth and still be left empty-handed?

/

_“…and someone always loses out in the end…”_

/

Dusk settles quietly over the world and the shadows stretch out for miles, but even so Helena does not miss the outline of a familiar-looking automobile parked close to the Calvert farmhouse. And her own footsteps are torn between haste and hesitance, her own eyes quick to widen in order to look around and to confirm what her pounding heart already knows…

…and there is Myka Bering, sitting silent upon the steps of the front porch.

They watch one another closely - Myka’s twisting hands and Helena’s slow approach – and they might as well be skittish animals who somehow belong to the exact same species; features so alike and blood so much the same, but wary of each other nonetheless… and so Helena stops before she draws too near, several feet from a gaze that falters and then falls away.

“They said you were either still out riding one of the horses or spending time in the barn… I didn’t want to disturb you…”

Myka’s soft voice, turned towards the dark ground below, manages to travel the short distance to Helena’s ears and Helena finds her own head nodding in response as words take their own sweet time in arriving at her tongue.

“…All-right.”

But when the words do arrive, they are not adequate at all. And they have always been too good at being reticent with one another; forever holding back what needs to be said and then, when given the whole world in which to finally speak, tongues are held and declarations come too late.

_“We did make a good team… didn’t we?”  
“We did… and then you…”_

And they are made up of pauses, of breaths caught between them – in a Warehouse hallway, as Walter Sykes’s revenge ticks down, against the dying of the sun within the sky.

_“…I just wish you would’ve realized that sooner.”  
“So do I.”_

And Myka looks back up at her, eyes glittering in the last of the daylight, and Helena has made a lot of vows in her long, long lifetime - and she has broken most of them, in one way or another. But this vow, this promise to be there when it counts, to help heal the wounds that she has had a hand in making…

…Helena won’t allow another chance with Myka Bering to slip away.

“I… I don’t know how I got back to the Warehouse because it was like I was driving on auto-pilot…”

And this invisible chasm has turned into only inches as Helena is pulled ever closer to where Myka sits, watery green stare fixed upon Helena’s face.

“…but I couldn’t get out of the car once I got there… I couldn’t do anything but stare at the Warehouse and wonder if it will ever be home again… if I will ever want to call it home again…”

And these inches have turned into seconds of air as Helena slowly reaches out to cradle the smooth expanse of Myka’s cheek, to run the grooves of her thumb across damp skin.

“…and I need to feel like I belong somewhere… I need to feel like everything will be okay again…”

And those green eyes shut as Helena feels the tender weight of Myka’s cheek press into the surface of her waiting palm.

“…and I need you… I need you, Helena… I need you…”

And Helena drops to her knees and Myka surges forward and they hold onto one another; they hold onto one another and, this time, neither one of them lets go.

/

_“…But maybe one day, my dear Christina, I will learn from my mistakes… and I will take hold of these chances and I won’t let them go…_

_…and maybe… one day… I won’t let these chances glide through my fingers like sand…”_

/


	11. XI

~ ~

_“Christina… I think you would finally be proud of me…”_

/

Helena has dreamt of the future for such a very long time now.

And the shape of this future has evolved over the years – turning from man to machine, from magic to madness, from pleasure to absolute peril. But her vision of the days to come were built upon the hours that came before; betwixt and between sorrows left behind and a desperate longing to see these tears made obsolete.  
But the world did not change for the sake of Christina’s lost life; those sweet eyes remain forever shut and, in the end, lucky to have never seen what would become of her mother…

…and yet the world saw fit to alter Helena’s decisions after a hundred years of solitude, picking up the threads she abandoned the day she went into the bronze and tugging her back once more; as though she were not just wanted but needed, as though there was still some meaning left to her existence…

But, upon the day of her reawakening, Helena wanted to see the ground crumble beneath her feet and then for the caverns below to swallow her down into their depths. And it could have happened; it could have been a deadly third strike against the surface of the earth and so everyone would lose what could have been – as Helena had… just as Helena had…

…and the future would not matter anymore because the future would be gone.

The world did not change for the sake of Helena’s lost sanity, though; the world changed only for the sake of Myka Bering.

And so the threads are now pulled taut, from Helena’s heart to Myka’s hands, and all the answers come crashing down at once.

_“…I need you, Helena…”_

And so Myka Bering is the future that even Helena could not foresee; and so Myka Bering is the world that Helena was always meant to find.  
/

“I was the one who found her.”

Myka’s voice is surprisingly steady, if not a bit subdued, and Helena watches as the other woman stares off into the dark distance – surely seeing another time and place other than the present; reluctantly reliving what cannot ever be forgotten.

Helena recognizes that haunted expression, after all; she has seen it upon her own face many, many times before.

“Her eyes were open… It was like she was frozen in time, like she had become stuck in the most horrible moment possible…”

Myka’s tears have subsided, leaving only a trace of sadness that glimmers in the porch-light. And their arms have gently fallen away from each other, but Helena remains close – content to continue kneeling in the dirt at Myka’s feet.

“…And that’s what I remember the most… Not the blood on the floor, not the Farnsworth lying there with Leena unable to reach anyone for help… not even Artie being the one responsible for all of this… I just keep seeing her eyes…”

And it is far from weeping, far from the soul-shattering sobbing that can roll through a body in times of sorrow… but a single tear breaks past Myka’s trembling   
defenses and travels the length of the woman’s cheek and Helena aches to wipe this misery away; to mend every wound and to place her lips upon every scar.

“…I keep seeing Leena’s eyes… blank and lifeless… and I don’t know how to move past this, Helena. I don’t know how to go back to the Warehouse after everything that has happened…”

Helena does not resist the urge to reach out now, once more cupping Myka’s face with the palms of her hands, and that threadbare stoicism softens with the contact; Myka seems to sink into this hold and she allows Helena to be the one to hold her up – an act of trust and also a sign of someone too tired to fight anymore.

And Helena wants to say that, one day, things will be better – the days gone by will soon fade, taking on only the colors that we give them. And Helena wants to say that, one day, the Warehouse will be a refuge again – that feeling of endless wonder will return, replacing the black with so much light. But Helena knows that Myka is already aware of such things and that what is truly needed – in this moment – is not the assurance that, one day, healing will come…

…but that she won’t have to do go down this road alone.

Helena allows one her hands to slowly slide away from the other woman’s face, only to replace that touch with the firm press of her lips to Myka’s cheek. And then Helena takes ahold of both of Myka’s hands, running her thumbs over that soft skin; over the faint ridges of bone and over the hidden blue of veins.

“Come with me…” Helena’s whispers into the curve of Myka’s ear, “…I want to show you something.”

/

_“…because I think I have finally found my way home…”_

/

It is the sound of their feet climbing, one ladder rung after the other; it is the sound of the horses below, the shifting of hooves through sawdust. It is the breeze as it flutters through the leaves, it is the crickets in the grass as they sing such quiet songs; it is the sound of Myka beside her – inhaling and exhaling – as they both stare out from the loft of the barn.

And the paddock below them dissolves into darkness, fence-line barely discernible now, and then – beyond that - the black ocean of the fields rolls on forever. Up above, though, is the map of the heavens; constellations of blinking white lights to help guide those who are lost or those who are seeking answers to puzzling questions…

Helena has spent many hours of her life studying the skies, counting the stars until her eyelids grew heavy with encroaching sleep and then she would lay her burdens down with a final glance up at Orion’s Belt – glittering so wonderfully against an inky backdrop… only to wake up once more with that familiar feeling of dissatisfaction, with the sensation of still being adrift…

Right now, though, Helena is sitting beside Myka Bering and they are looking at the stars – the two of them so quietly close to one another – and there is only the sweet swell of contentment to be found in Helena’s soul in this moment and so the truth – always held just out of reach – tumbles down from Helena’s tongue as though it had been waiting to fall all along.

“I’ve been disappearing from this world for so long, Myka… Even before Christina was taken from me, I was forever searching elsewhere for what might have been right in front of me… Always looking forward, always thinking of tomorrow… That attitude may have worked out well for a novel or for an invention, but this particular quality of mine was never well-suited for relationships of any kind. But I did try, more so than I ever thought possible, when Christina was born. My ambitions were still the same, you see, but… they were for her… for her future, for her dreams, for her… I would change every rule. And that goal held true long after her passing and, well… we both know how that turned out…”

And this is where their histories merge – Helena’s loss and Myka’s distrust, Helena’s redemption and Myka’s belief – and they share a look with each other; a look of acknowledgement and a look of understanding.

“…But after this last attempt at death was altered, I didn’t know what to do… I could easily serve the Warehouse again because, if nothing else, a sense of obligation ties me to it. It will always be a tether, just not to this world… It is a tether to who I once was… and yet, who I once was, does not truly exist anymore… But here I am, Myka, alive when I thought I would be gone and so it is finally time to stay… It is finally time to let go of all that used to be and be here now… Be here with you.”

And this is how Helena found herself – on this farm, in that notebook, riding long into the evening, watching Beta and Alpha glow along that hunter’s celestial hips; this is how Helena made amends – not with agents lost, not with friends once betrayed – but with herself. This is how Helena put her feet back on the ground, in this day and in this age, and this is the honesty that Helena had been fearful of for so long… The fear that she could find joy, that she could find happiness, after such a long and twisted life; that after so many regrets and so many missteps, Helena would be allowed to find love… It was a terrifying prospect and were it to shatter in her grasp, Helena was not sure she could survive such a blow…

And so she ran. And so she raged. And so she nearly sacrificed every chance given to her.

But, against all the odds, Helena is here tonight and she won’t let go of this world again.

And there is the delicate – but still so solid and still so secure - press of Myka’s shoulder against Helena’s shoulder; there is the overlapping of fingertips resting upon these well-worn wooden boards, like puzzle pieces sliding into place… only this time not with caution but with a shaky sort of faith…

And Helena cannot help the smile that grows upon her lips.

And Helena cannot help the sense of peace that floods into her body – here with the moonlit clouds and the sweet scent of clover, with Myka’s hand creeping into her own more fully and with the slow tilting of that palm to receive Helena’s kiss.

And there are the lines – of life, of love, of intelligence and strength; of the past forever unmovable and of the unknown years to come…

…and Helena makes sure to grace each one with the attention they so deserve. And whispered into the woman’s palm is a final truth; a truth to be held for as long as Helena is allowed to live.

“I love you, Myka Bering… I love you.”

And there are the lines – of connection, of consequence, of all that they have watched fall apart and of all that they could create with each other…

…So it starts today, this new world, in the words that they have finally managed to say; in honesty given and then humbly welcomed.

And there, in Myka’s clear green gaze, is the beginning of everything.

“…I know.”

/

_“…and I won’t walk away from it again.”_

/


	12. XII

~ ~

_“The dawn broke anew and I was awake to see it, Myka._

_I watched as the pale blue sky was slowly filled up with swirls of yellow and pink… and then I turned towards you, sleeping soundly against my side… You sighed when I touched you, when I placed soft fingertips to the curve of your jaw, and then the sunlight pushed through the glass and fell onto your face…_

_…and so you are all of my mornings from this moment on…”_

/

She slides her fingers up along the nose then down the neck – slipping under the mane and then back out again with fluid and gentle strokes. And she whispers sentences that only this horse can hear, her nails lightly scratching through a dappled coat while she speaks and she watches with a grin as ears twitch in response.

Dwayne Calvert walks in with a bag of feed slung over his shoulder, nodding his head briefly in Helena’s direction before depositing that red-and-white bag to the floor.

“Saw your friend out there. Looks like you are leaving for good.”  
“Yes… I do believe my days here are at an end.”

And Helena took great pains to remain silent while on Dwayne Calvert’s farm – halting conversations before they could start, keeping to herself while others mixed and mingled – but there is a glimmer of awareness in the man’s eyes today; a glimmer that speaks of knowing that this ‘Emily’ was never what she seemed to be in the first place – even if Dwayne Calvert will never know the full truth of that particular gut-feeling.

But the hand that he offers to her now only conveys respect – for working hard from sunup to sundown, for doing the job that she was given – and so idle curiosity and subtle suspicions are left by the wayside. And Helena wishes she could tell this man how much she has grown to love this farm – the feeling of heat against her skin and of honest sweat dotting her brow, the soreness of muscles put to productive use, the joyful sensation of hooves kicking off underneath her body…

Instead, they shake hands – firm but quick – and then they part ways without another word said.

And Helena wishes she could thank this man for something so invaluable yet so intangible; she wishes she could thank him for holding a safe space without even knowing it – a pocket of time, outside of danger and outside of damage, in which Helena could finally make peace with the past and set it free from her bones… set it free from her soul…

All she can do, though, is look back one more time before she goes and never returns; she looks back at the rusted edges of a tin roof, at the cracked white paint around the sill of her upstairs window, at the Midwestern breeze as it flutters through the rich green tree-line and then swoops down to create eddies upon the dusty ground.

And Helena takes a deep breath, as if pulling all of these feelings into her lungs so that they may always be a part of her body – flowing through her blood, beating in rhythm with her heart…

/

_“…and we will have a glorious life, you and I…”_

/

…And then Helena looks to Myka, who is leaning against the door of the SUV – arms loosely crossed and clothes rumpled from a night of heavy sleep, gaze wide open but still somehow beautifully shy… and so the farm gently fades away from view, just a sweet memory when faced with such a wondrous future.

/

_“…for as long as fate will allow…”_

/

One of Myka’s hands is left open, like an invitation, and so Helena is swift to accept it; weaving their fingers together like threads within a loom. And those callouses earned meet up with somewhat softer flesh and Helena relishes this sensation of connection, of completion.

And Myka returns this hold – fingers flexing, grip growing stronger – while they sit in silence, side by side in an unmoving automobile, with the Warehouse towering above them.

“…This is worse than when I first left…”

And Helena remembers seeing Myka in her parent’s bookstore all those many, many months ago - struggling to stay protected from the present by fleeing to the past, finding solace in the endless paragraphs and finding safety in the endless boredom.

“…because I don’t know what I am coming back to this time around… I don’t know if there is anything left to come back to…”

And that’s what human beings do, after all – they run when things fall apart, when the world seems to shatter and yet it is only yourself that is left in pieces – we all run, that’s what Helena knows to be true. We all retreat towards the past, we all fly towards the unknown; we disappear into time and come out as monsters… or we fade away into obscurity and lose ourselves nonetheless.

“…How will things ever go back to normal?”

But there is always another option, hiding underneath the fear and the sorrow, and this is one lesson that Helena has finally learned…

…and so she leans over the middle console, slipping her hand away from Myka’s secure hold so that these fingers may travel upward; so that they might hook around the back of Myka’s neck and be used to pull the other woman forward and into Helena’s embrace.

“Things will never be as they once were, Myka… but you’ll find your footing again, as you must… and until you do…”

And Helena pulls back until their lips are only seconds apart, until their foreheads lightly touch; until Myka’s tender stare is caught and can no longer look away, until the air between them becomes a sigh shared.

“…I will be your ground.”

/

Beginnings and endings – these are the moments that Helena has built her overly-long life upon; these fleeting seconds, where an idea turns into a reality and where the living suddenly fade into dust… these are the markers on which Helena has counted down the years.

A plot scribbled onto paper, a story that still finds itself in print.  
A sketch of a fanciful dream, a machine that upends time.  
A child’s first sentence, a daughter’s last breath.

Always alert at the start and always defeated at the closing, Helena lost sight of the moments in-between – a wine bottle in her hands as she toyed endlessly with names and faces of fictional people, the thousands of drawings of other devices that littered her floorboards… or the first steps taken, that first ripple of joyful laughter, the first time Christina’s arms wrapped about Helena’s waist and a sweet ‘I love you’ echoed into Helena’s ears… All of the moments in-between forever cast aside, while another beginning – or another ending – was so desperately sought.

…But here is a moment – a moment in the middle of all things – and Helena tells herself to remember this; to remember the way Myka’s pupils dilate, to remember those irises becoming a deeper shade of green, to remember Myka’s voice softly saying what they both know to be true, what they have always known to be true…

“I love you.”

…and to remember the warm press of Myka’s lips against her own; to remember this and to never forget.

/

_“…and then longer still, Myka… and then longer still…”_

/

-end-


End file.
